


Commit to memory

by EmergencyBroadcastSystem



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Amnesia, Brain Damage, M/M, Memory Loss, damen has severe memory loss and not much short term memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 17:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmergencyBroadcastSystem/pseuds/EmergencyBroadcastSystem
Summary: Damen was shot in the back of the head when he was fourteen at a range of seven paces with his father’s bolt-action shotgun. Kastor pulled the trigger.The blow shot off a shallow chunk of his skull, a messy strip of his scalp and one ear.He healed. Metal was fixed into his skull to plug the hole. A new ear was crafted, symmetrical to his other one, and attached to his head. His hair never regrew properly, but his father commissioned strips of false hair to be made and attached over the waxy scar.His memory never recovered.--Damen, and tweleve meditations on memory loss.





	Commit to memory

**Author's Note:**

> These are all exactly 100w long, so enjoy that nice round word-count.

Damen was shot in the back of the head when he was fourteen at a range of seven paces with his father’s bolt-action shotgun. Kastor pulled the trigger.

The blow shot off a shallow chunk of his skull, a messy strip of his scalp and one ear.

He healed. Metal was fixed into his skull to plug the hole. A new ear was crafted, symmetrical to his other one, and attached to his head. His hair never regrew properly, but his father commissioned strips of false hair to be made and attached over the waxy scar.

His memory never recovered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damen remembered nothing of the day surrounding the incident. He probably never would. It was like the bullet had punched through time as well.

He remembered his childhood very clearly. This grounded him. On bad days, he would scroll photos of him as a child, happy and already a head taller than the other children. He would try hard not to ask where Kastor was.

People usually assumed it was like dementia, which was close. He’d understand new information, think it had stuck in his head, but it would slip through his hands like water the moment the conversation changed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damen lived his life writing messages in bottles. His past self send him missives from the front line. He always had his phone on him, even when he slept. It was always buzzing with reminders, with short, personal descriptions, with dates.

It did not always work. _Text Sarah, from computing class_. Which computing class? Who was Sarah?

Damen still considered himself lucky. He could still visit Kastor in prison, he had a family. He did not have much PTSD. He did not have flashbacks, he did not have nightmares, he didn’t have anxiety or depression.

He had nothing at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dating Jokaste had strange. It had been like he was continually at sea.

“Are you sure I agreed to this?” Damen had asked, heart lurching. He had a vague feeling which pushed him in a different direction.

Jokaste had smiled, shyly, “Of course I’m sure. We have been planning this for months, Damen.”

Her fingernails cut scratches in his skin. Damen searched his memory, but as usual it yielded nothing. An ugly, desperate feeling. But he did not want to contradict himself, he knew he was difficult to be with. He forced his instincts down and allowed her closer, closer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damen did not remember meeting Laurent, but it must have happened. Laurent told him whenever he asked, over and over, but it was not one of the rare things he retained. When he brought it to mind, he thought of the faint smell of new books, and Laurent’s loud laugh, warmth like a hot drink or a tight hug. These, however, are also the things that come to mind when he thinks of Laurent himself.

There must have been a before, because there was a definite after. But in Damen’s mind, it seemed as if he had always loved him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Laurent dragged Damen out of the party by the elbow, not stopping until they were out on the street, under the glare of the street light.

“What’s wrong?” Damen asked.

“I—...” Laurent gasped, “You were talking to Guion...”

“Who?”

“Guion,” Laurent rubbed his eyes. He shook like he was about to cry, “Damen… a year ago, you got very drunk and you passed out and he—he took you into his room and...”

Damen stared down at him, confused. He didn’t remember.

“Come on,” Laurent said, holding Damen’s hand very tight, like he might slip away, “Let’s go home.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damen turned the ring around and around his finger, “Hey, mister…?”

Laurent looked up from his work.

“Am I Laurent or is that you?” Damen asked, tilting his head.

Laurent went very still. Damen forgetting own name would be a huge step backwards—a corrosion of the few good memories Damen retained. All the colour drained from his face.

“I’m joking,” Damen said, quickly, when he saw how pale Laurent went.

Laurent shot him a dark look.

“Sorry,” Damen said, wincing.

“You should be,” Laurent said. “You’re Laurent, by the way.”

Damen paused for half a second, before laughing hard.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A chocolate cake was pulled out of the fridge, where it had been hidden beneath frozen pizza boxes of a flavour Laurent never ate. The cake was set on the tray, along with Darjeeling tea in a pot with two mugs, a jug of milk and a knife to cut the cake with.

“Happy birthday,” Damen said, stooping down to kiss his husband’s forehead.

Laurent smiled at him, still weighed by sleep. He ran a hand through his golden hair and sat up, “Thank you. How many phone reminders was it?”

“None,” Damen said, proudly, although that wasn’t quite true.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

One morning, Laurent visited the jewellers.

When Damen asked what they were doing and Laurent told him they were having their names engraved onto their wedding rings.

Damen looked perplexed. It seemed to come out of the blue, but then, a lot of things did. Laurent slipped it back onto his finger, holding Damen’s hand long after he had put the ring back on.

_Damen, love Laurent._

“It’s to make then unique,” Laurent said, pushing his glasses back into his hair, “In case we lose them.”

Damen ran a thumb over them, and nodded, although he knew that wasn’t it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Does it bother you, when he forgets your name?”

It was a very personal question. Laurent shifted back in his seat, fixing the interviewer with a sharp look to show his distaste. But it was a question people wanted to know the answer to.

“He remembers the least when he wakes up,” Laurent started, evenly, “He’ll remember most of the day and forget it all the next morning. But you know the strangest thing?”

“What?”

“He’s never scared of me, when he doesn’t remember my name. It’s because he remembers he loves me. So no, it doesn’t, because that’s enough.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Auguste is in all of my childhood memories,” Laurent said, suddenly. He did not talk of his own memories often, but it seemed he was just the right level of drunk to do it.

Nikandros paused, swaying a little to the thumping of the club music, “It is good you have strong memories of him.”

Damen knew from Laurent’s tone that wasn’t what he’d meant. He meant that Auguste was there, in his memories, even when he couldn’t be. Even after he was dead.

“Really?” Laurent swirled the bourbon around in his glass, “I think it’s a little bit pathetic, actually.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Laurent caught Damen wiggling his ears in the mirror one morning. “The right one’s fake,” Laurent supplied.

Damen frowned, a half-smile coming to his features, “You’re serious?”

Laurent nodded.

Now that he had it pointed out to him, it was obvious. The skin on his right ear was waxy and much colder than his other one. The hair above it was missing too, which would make sense with him losing it. It was still very strange to him. He tugged them experimentally while Laurent plucked his pale eyebrows in the mirror.

“Why do I have a fake ear?” Damen asked.


End file.
